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Daphne
I’m uncomfortable while the hairdresser/makeup artist/stylist does his magic on me and I squirm in my chair. I don’t understand what the point of all this is. I don’t need a makeover. But Husband seems to think that I do.
This is his house, his rules. And he is my captor.
He’s watching the man’s every move like he wants to make sure no mistakes are made. But whenever the man stands too close to me, Husband looks away, his hands tightening around the sink and a muscle ticks in his jaw.
Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to be in my presence except him. Not even a man who seems to have about as much testosterone as I do. But is Husband really that possessive of me?
I glance at him and the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know and I avert my gaze. Never mind...
Bending my head down into the sink, I grit my teeth when a stream of water runs down my neck. Some kind of ointment has been smeared into my hair and my eyes flare when I notice black dye spreading. Is my hair being decolorized?
I’ve been dyeing my hair ever since I was old enough to do so and usually I do it a couple of times of month since I don’t like to see the pale roots showing. I’ve always wanted to look like someone else, always wanted to be someone else but now Husband is making sure that those efforts are literally going down the drain.
My head gets pulled back, smeared with a dye that says champagne-blonde on the box and I shudder. My face is free from makeup, looking shiny and healthy and I don’t like it.
But Husband seems to think the opposite and there’s a content glimmer in his eyes.
“Are you thirsty?” he asks while I wait for the color to set. “Do you want anything?”
“Are you going to poison it while I’m not watching?”
He scowls and I murmur that a cup of tea would be nice. He turns, saying something to the hairdresser in a sharp tone and the hairdresser gawks. But he stops fidgeting with his own hair and walks out of the bathroom, while muttering something I can’t understand.
Glancing at Husband, I bend my head down and look at my nails. They used to be colored a deep red, a shade a lot of the girls at the bank wear but now they’re just blank and polished. Now my hands almost look like a child’s hands.
“What’s all of this for?” I say. “Do you have a thing for blondes or what?”
His head moves in a shake. “I only have a thing for you.”
The words make my cheeks blaze and I look at him in surprise. “Then why...?” I begin but get interrupted by the hairdresser who hands me the tea and continues with the makeover. He’s taking his time, meticulous with what he’s doing and by the time he’s blow drying my hair, I can’t help but to look at myself in the mirror and stare in surprise.
I haven’t had this kind of hair since I was a kid and I bite my lip when the hairdresser purposefully brings out my thick curls instead of straightening them like I always tend to do. I don’t like them, they’re similar to coils, truly making me look like a plaything and I avert my gaze.
“Finito,” the hairdresser exclaims to my relief and he starts putting his tools away. “Bellisimma!”
I don’t agree. And my fists clench. This wasn’t even a makeover. This is a makeunder. I look the way I used to look. Why did Husband do this? What reason could he have to do this?
Other than to show me the amount of control he has over me.
Husband’s eyes roam over me like he’s been wandering and wandering and has finally found what he’s been looking for. There’s a glimmer in his gaze that wasn’t there previously and it snatches my breath.
He says something out of the corner of his mouth and the hairdresser scatters and then I hear the front door shut. It means it’s not locked. If I try and run now...
“You make me ache,” Husband rasps, distracting me from what I’m thinking and suddenly I’m frozen, can’t move when his knuckles slide along my jawline. “You make everything ache so damn bad.”
“Then let me go.” I lick my lips. “Let me go and you won’t ache anymore.”
“I can’t. I let you go a long time ago and I can’t do it again. And then it didn’t just hurt. It almost killed me.”
I stare up at him, my head swimming as I try to make sense of what he just said. He let me go a long time ago? What is he talking about? We’ve never met. I inhale and exhale when I realize that he must be mistaking me for someone else.
“Husband...” I say very carefully because I don’t want to anger him. “I think you have the wrong g...girl.”
“No,” he says in a low voice and there’s a hint of a smile in his voice as if its amusing to him that I think he’s made a mistake, “I think I would know. And I don’t mean to crush your hopes of freedom but I have the right one.” His eyes slide over my hair and face. “Especially now.”
Moving to stand behind me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and they are so close to my throat that I tense, almost thinking that he’s going to use them to strangle me but then I remember that he promised not to hurt me.
